


Private Affairs

by skogr



Series: lighting candles [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bull/Dorian if you squint, F/M, Josie/Leliana (background), self indulgent fluff and nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 16:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6914608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skogr/pseuds/skogr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times the Inquisitor and the Commander try to keep their private affairs private (with varying degrees of success.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Affairs

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think that before they start smoochin’ in public on the regular, they at least try to exercise a little discretion (however badly.)

Josephine usually prides herself on her punctuality, but on this particular occasion she's so engrossed in paperwork it takes a gentle tap on the shoulder to bring her from her reverie. She jumps, startled, and Leliana lets out that low, musical laugh of hers. It's a lovely sound, carefree and genuine, and Josephine takes great pleasure in hearing it more and more frequently. She looks up from her desk with a little laugh of her own, finding it impossibly contagious.

With a shake of the head, she allows herself to be led through to the War Room with a strange mixture of regret and relief. The trade agreements are dull reading, true enough, but she finds that when she steps away from them it's even harder to immerse herself a second time. Leliana is watching her with a half-smile and she feels the need to explain herself.

“Antivans drive a hard bargain,” she says, and Leliana laughs again.

The reply is gently teasing. “Indeed they do.” Leliana pauses halfway along the hallway to peer out of a window with an uncharacteristic idleness. Her next sentence is said in an oddly loud voice, projected as artfully as any Orlesian noble wishing for someone to ‘accidentally’ overhear. The odd thing is, there's absolutely no one about. “Lovely weather, isn't it? Seems such a shame to be cooped up inside.”

Josephine follows suit seamlessly by instinct, though she is still rather in the dark herself. “I couldn't agree more. Perhaps we could take tea in the courtyard later?”

“That sounds lovely, Josie.” Leliana smiles at her to indicate the acceptance of her invitation is genuine, even if the conversation is contrived. She quickens her pace once more and Josephine falls into step. “I think we could both use the break.”

“I hardly know _how_ to relax anymore.”

That makes Leliana laugh again, this time light and airy and carrying as she opens the door to the Council. It's no less lovely, but it's no longer just for Josie’s ears and less precious for being so.

Cullen and the Inquisitor are already there - not particularly surprising since all four of them are punctual by nature. It's a breath of fresh air to work with people who also put stock in such things, Josephine finds. They must have both passed through her office earlier when she was too engrossed in the trade agreement to have acknowledged them, so she shoots them a small apologetic smile.

Creatures of habit as they are, they all have their own positions around the table they're inclined to take, though there's no real reason behind them. Unusually, Linnea is not at her usual position, standing beside Cullen and laughing softly at something on the table in front of them. She looks up to give Josephine and Leliana a friendly smile, the shape of her laughter still evident on her lips and in the flush of her cheeks. She takes a step back towards her usual spot in front of the war table, Cullen doing the same as they prepare to begin their meeting.

It's good that they're getting along, Josie thinks, distractedly shuffling through the missives that need attention today. Their dynamic as Inquisitor and advisor relies on a good personal relationship as much as it does a good professional one: she knows from experience that keeping those spheres entirely separate is both impossible and undesirable. She had feared that Cullen would try, nonetheless.

Which reminds her, she simply _must_ cajole him into attending the next tea party she is holding for the nobles. Hate it as he might, she's sure she could engineer a conversation between him and the Compte de Juinne which could secure them important funding, if she can set Cullen off onto one of his impassioned speeches, the Compte can't help but see his competency. With just a little push, perhaps she could -

“Josie?”

She returns to reality with a blink. “I do apologise, my mind was elsewhere entirely -”

Leliana wordlessly passes her a letter by way of explanation, a smile playing across her mouth.

“We need to send at least thirty men,” Cullen is saying, “I'd even recommend forty.”

“Not terribly stealthy, is it?” Linnea says, reaching absently to run her thumb along her bottom lip. Cullen's eyes follow the movement closely. “We can't do it with fewer?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

Linnea looks at him for a long moment, the corner of her mouth curving upwards. She clearly disagrees; Josephine can read it in every line of her face. What she cannot read, however, is even the smallest trace of tension between either of them. Cullen's stance is beset with characteristic stubbornness, but he too seems perfectly at ease with the unspoken disagreement.

“Alright,” Linnea says mildly, “any other suggestions?” She raises her eyebrows at Josephine and Leliana in turn before catching Cullen's gaze again and grinning. “Unless you'd rather have an argument?”

He snorts. “I'll pass.”

Leliana presses her lips together in amusement as Josephine makes a note on her parchment, wondering what she missed whilst lost in her thoughts. An argument? Unlikely; Linnea and Cullen haven't really butted heads since Haven, and clearly all that has resolved itself quite nicely. Josephine had been concerned for a while, but learning to disagree is part of developing a good working relationship. Linnea handles that sort of thing impeccably these days, a long way from the Circle mage that stood in front of the war table with plain disbelief written all over her face.

The rest of their meeting passes with the sort of unanimous agreement that has come to form the vast majority of their discussions, decisive actions and the satisfaction of a job well done.

As Josephine heads towards the door, her mind already swimming with thoughts of profit margins and percentages, Leliana pauses to shuffle her papers.

“I do hope I wasn't disturbing you last night, Inquisitor,” she says, “I stayed up rather late working, I'm afraid.”

Cullen goes very, very still, but Linnea just shoots Leliana a puzzled look. “Why would you disturb me?”

“The crows,” Leliana continues apologetically, “they do squawk so, I hope the sound didn't carry through these old stone walls.” Leliana pauses as Linnea continues to look politely confused, looking at Linnea in that way of hers that Linnea must now recognise as mischievous. “Your quarters are above this room, are they not?”

There is a brief silence.

“Oh,” Linnea says, in the tone of one considering something very alarming for the first time. “I - no. Not at all. No noise, I mean. Um.” Her eyes flicker across to Cullen and suddenly, she seems to be fighting very hard not to burst into laughter, ducking her head.

Leliana’s smile is far too broad. “I am glad,” she says, with an odd sincerity that seems to embarrass Linnea further. Leliana has that look about her not _entirely_ dissimilar to when she's about to deliver a particularly scathing comment at court, though it's completely without malice or any kind of ill-intent. She is, in short, enjoying herself immensely. “As long as I didn't disturb you.”

Linnea reply is very faint. “Not at all.” She is clearly floundering for what to say. Leliana gracefully spares her from further discomfort with another smile as she crosses to leave the room with Josephine.

“I do hope you're planning on explaining all that,” Josephine says in a low voice once they're out in the corridor.

Leliana grins widely. “Over tea, Josie,” she says, hooking her arm around Josephine’s elbow in a familiar, affectionate gesture. It smoothes out all the rough edges of Josie’s day in an instant, stills the racing thoughts about Antivan tradesmen, soothes the irritation she couldn't help but feel at being left in the dark. She has been too preoccupied as of late to take a moment for herself, and Leliana is offering her just that.

She allows herself to be gently led away, casting one last curious look over her shoulder as the heavy doors of the War Room slowly swing shut, where she catches a glimpse of Linnea reaching towards a still frozen in place Cullen as her shoulders shake with silent laughter.

 

-

 

Agreeing to oversee Griffin Wing Keep had seemed like a simple enough decision at the time, though Rylen is rapidly starting to regret it. Not that he'd say it out loud, but his despair at the seemingly never-ending supply of problems must be obvious on his face. If it's not water supplies running low then it's food, if it's not food then it's bloody _varghests_ savaging his men, and if it's not that he's sure it'll find something else to throw at them. Dragons, maybe. It'd be just his luck.

Given the circumstances, he can hardly be blamed for cursing under his breath when he spots a scout dashing towards him.

“Alright, what is it?” Rylen braces himself for the next batch of bad news. “If it's the water again, try -”

“Not the water, ser.” The scout skids to a halt. “The Inquisitor’s here, ser.” She looks a little awestruck. “Now,” she adds helpfully, and Rylen snorts.

“Dismissed, Private,” he says, and begins his purposeful stride to the doors to greet their new guests. It's not terrible news. It's rather good news, actually, provided the Inquisitor isn't in a hurry and can spare a few moments of her time to help them out.

He also hears she has some experience with dragons. Just in case.

Rylen has spoken to her only a handful of times but he finds he rather likes her; the residual awkwardness of his being a templar and her being a mage didn't take long to forget about entirely. He still finds it a little jarring seeing her staff over her shoulder sometimes, but he can't fault what she's doing, in and out of combat. That's all that matters to him. Cullen has always spoken highly of her and he's not one to make claims like that unless he believes them.

The Inquisitor dismounts at the gates, striding forward to grab the hand he offers. “Captain, good to see you. Wildlife still giving you trouble?”

“Not for a few days, I think we might’ve seen the last of them.”

“Excellent.” She pushes her hood back and scrutinises the Keep, shading her eyes with her hand. “If they do come back, I think the Commander has contingency plans.”

“Already in action, Inquisitor. Cullen arrived yesterday and we've been assessing the situation.”

“He's here?” She drops her hand in surprise. “I didn't expect to cross paths out here.”

“I could say the same,” comes Cullen's voice from behind him, nodding at Rylen as he approaches them.

“Change of plans,” the Inquisitor offers, Cullen in turn offering her his hand. She stares at it for a confused moment before taking it with a sheepish grin. Cullen chuckles quietly under his breath.

She’s not flustered, exactly, but there’s a flicker of something similar breaking through the calm, professional exterior Rylen has always been presented with. “Rylen was telling me you've been dealing with the varghests.”

“Yes, I think we may have persuaded them to nest elsewhere.”

She raises an eyebrow. “'We’?” Do I detect a note of personal pride there, Commander?”

“It's a nice change from paperwork.”

The Inquisitor shakes her head with a laugh, gesturing for them to accompany her up into the Keep proper. “I can only imagine. How's morale, Captain?”

“Better since we had fresh water.”

“Any Venatori?”

“A few dispersed pockets here and there.” Rylen leads her over to the map they've been using, spread out across a few crates with markers representing the Venatori. “The last ones we encountered were just there -”

“About twenty,” Cullen adds, “more than we expected. We can't find traces of any more.”

“Good work, looks like they're retreating.” She casts an appraising glance over the map before her gaze flicks back to Cullen. “I do hope you've had that looked at.”

“What's that?” Cullen says, in a weakly evasive tone. “Had what looked at?”

She narrows her eyes. “The bloody big hole on your side that makes you wince whenever you move, that's what.”

Rylen has to bite back a grin as Cullen shifts guiltily from foot to foot. He's surprised to find them so familiar with each other, but then again they do work in quite close quarters. He supposes he's really just surprised to see Cullen respond with anything besides his usual stubborn bluster. He looks for a moment as if he's about to deny it, but the expression on the Inquisitor’s face clearly says she won't believe it.

“It's nothing.”

“Do you have a healer here?” That last comment is directed at Rylen, and he nods. She turns back to Cullen. “There you go.”

“It's  _fine_.”

The Inquisitor levels him with a sharply exasperated look, but Cullen's jaw has set and so she turns back to the map with a sigh. The rest is business as usual, though Rylen can't help but sneak sideways looks at his commander. True enough, movement seems to pain him and he looks a little pale, and Rylen makes a private note to send the healer along to his tent later anyway, Cullen's objections be damned. He's not having an incident on his watch.

It isn't until later that he gets a chance to drop by Cullen's tent, finding one of the entrances half open and a gentle light coming from within. He's about to announce his presence when he hears a quiet laugh in a voice other than Cullen's, and finds himself rooted to the spot with an unprofessional curiosity. It's not a laugh he recognises, and certainly not the gruff tones of their healer. As Cullen’s captain he should walk away and leave his commander to his own private affairs, but as his friend he finds himself unable to leave the mystery alone.

Shifting slightly to the right affords him a view inside; Cullen stands in a state of undress whilst a woman examines the wound in his side with a frown. It occurs to him both as he identifies the situation as medical and the woman as the Inquisitor that his previous assumptions may have been rather far from the mark. It's still a somewhat strange thing to witness.

“You really should see a healer,” she says, and Cullen winces as she runs her fingers over it cautiously. “Pass the poultice, would you? It won't heal half as fast without magic, but at least you've kept it clean.”

“It's fine, Linnea.”

“It took a mouthful out of you! I have a vested interest in you not bleeding to death, I'll have you know.” She presses the poultice to his side.

Cullen laughs and pulls back at the same time, hissing through his teeth as the laughter fades. “It's not as if the healer here would do any different. They've no mages.”

“An oversight I intend to correct as soon as possible. I'd feel much better if someone with magic could take a look at you.”

“You're a mage.”

She laughs and starts to reach for a bandage before she looks back at him in surprise. “You're not being serious, are you?”

“I - Maybe.” Cullen looks hugely uncomfortable.

“It's really not my area. I won't be as neat as someone who's been trained -”

“I'd rather it was you.”

There is a lengthy silence.

Eventually, Linnea sighs, long and frustrated. “Alright,” she says, “but only because I don't want you to bleed to death.” She fixes him with a steady gaze that he seems to have trouble meeting. “If you flinch, I could make it worse.”

Cullen nods and looks away with a clenched jaw as she carefully peels the poultice away and flexes her fingers. She picks up on his unease - it's hard not to see the tension radiating from him - and her voice takes on a more soothing quality. “Can you relax for me a little?” Her hands take on that familiar glow Rylen has come to associate with healing magic, the air ringing silently somehow with the energy of it. He finds it comforting, instinctively associating it with warmth and softness.

Cullen seems to be experiencing the opposite effect entirely, eyes closed and fists clenched. Linnea hovers over the wound for a moment, hesitating. “Also,” she says lightly, evidently aiming to distract him, “you know me. Any excuse to get you naked.”

Cullen's laugh is weak but enough to bring him back to some semblance of calm. “Half naked,” he corrects.

“We'll see about that.”

It's only as Cullen gently tangles his fingers in her hair that Rylen thinks perhaps he had the right of it to begin with, after all.

Curiosity satisfied, he beats a hasty retreat and waylays the healer on his way to the tent with an armful of bandages. Cullen can thank him later.

 

-

 

Dorian is not, by nature, fond of mornings. Mornings are for remembering poor decisions and sleeping off the regret, in his experience. These days his mornings are very different: for waking up with the sun, stretching out his aches and pains, for complaining loudly but insincerely about the trials of travelling with the Inquisitor. By contrast, his mornings at Skyhold are a leisurely affair that he's rather come to treasure.

Not this morning. This morning they leave for another Makerforsaken marshland, probably - and as such, he's stood by the gate at an ungodly hour, sleep-rumpled and yawning, waiting for their esteemed Inquisitor.

She isn't _late_ , not technically, but being the paragon of timeliness that she is, her leisurely arrival is a little unusual. She rounds the corner at a brisk pace not two minutes later, Cullen and Josephine close behind, the ambassador talking rapidly. Linnea nods and signs something Josephine offers her with a careless flourish, waving at Dorian as she crams a chunk of bread into her mouth hurriedly, hardly bothering to chew. It's not the most dignified thing he's ever seen her do, and Cullen seems to agree, judging by his smirk.

“Oh dear,” Dorian says, “looks like someone skipped breakfast.”

She mutters something through a mouthful of food that sounds like, “Forgot.” It’s a little ashamed.

“And you're _late_.”

She takes a moment to swallow, then turns to him indignantly. “I am _not_.”

“Luckily for you, I'm a caring, sharing sort.” Dorian tosses her an apple. “It won't do for the Herald of Andraste to be malnourished.”

She rolls her eyes but tucks the apple into her pocket, running a hand absently over her horse's flank. Cullen just sort of - _hovers_ \- neither offering anything nor showing any intention of leaving. Dorian flashes him his most charming grin.

“Joining us, Commander?”

Cullen starts. “What? I - no.” He sounds almost disappointed, and Linnea grins over her shoulder away from him. “I just - the scout reports.”

Linnea takes the papers he thrusts towards her, still grinning. “Thank you.”

Cullen still seems inclined to linger awkwardly. He has the distinct air of someone with something to say but who, for whatever reason, cannot actually say it. “You're welcome.”

“We'll be three weeks, more or less,” she says, dropping her voice a little. Cullen nods stiffly. “I should - we should really make a move -”

“Yes, of course.”

Linnea is quite a decent rider these days, despite how appallingly clueless she was back in the early days. It's been a long time since Dorian watched her try to mount a horse for a good ten minutes without success, until an impatient Cassandra bodily hauled a mortified Linnea to sit behind her. Cullen doesn't seem to have noticed, judging by the way he helps her up, one hand holding the reigns and the other supporting her elbow. Last time Dorian offered her a hand he got a glare for his trouble, but he supposes that's just what he gets for not being quite as broad and handsome in that stoic, Fereldan way of his.

He’s rather fond of Cullen. He's nothing like the templars back home, the toothless steel buckets that lumber about the Circles uselessly. Cullen is far more difficult to navigate, all bristles and stubbornness and such a _stickler_ for rules he really oughtn't be any fun whatsoever. But yet, he's good company. For two naturally abrasive people, they get on remarkably smoothly.

Linnea is more naturally a people pleaser, willing to plaster on a smile and make nice, even if she's just as likely to pull a face the minute their back is turned. It's half an occupational hazard and half a genuine desire to see the best in people. It's probably one of the reasons why Cullen holds such a candle for her, but that's none of Dorian's business. He doesn’t make a habit of getting involved with other people's affairs, just as he wouldn't want them involved in his.

He mounts his own horse without the assistance of anyone, thank you very much - though Bull makes a lewd offer which he ignores with dignity and poise, more or less -  and they make their way through the gates. Cullen doesn't quite wave them off, but he does stay standing in the entrance until they disappear out of sight, having offered a wry ‘ _be careful’_ , which Dorian had to chuckle at.

“You know,” he says to Linnea, against his better judgement, “I think he rather likes you.”

She just grins at him through a mouthful of apple.

 

-

 

Josephine may be loathe to admit it, but at least one of every ten Orlesian visitors to Skyhold seems to be there to see Varric. He can hardly believe it himself, but he's the name of the hour, apparently. His signature - already quite elaborate - is evolving into an even more fanciful flourish with each new signing. He really should start charging.

Even more delightful than the Orlesian cohort of fans he seems to have acquired is the charming addition of Cullen's scowling face. He doesn't know how Josephine managed to persuade him to join this particular soiree, but it's bringing him no end of amusement.

Cullen, of course, seems to disapprove on principle that Varric has fans at all, probably because he's allergic to fun. He keeps hovering beside Varric however, no doubt avoiding the chance of bumping into any nobles who might actually want to talk to him.

And Varric, of course, can't possibly resist yanking on Cullen's chain. Not when such a beautiful opportunity is handed to him on a silver platter.

“So, _The Champion of Kirkwall_ is your favourite, huh?” he asks, handing back the book he'd signed to a delighted Orlesian.

“Oh, yes! Absolutely!”

“Tell me,” Varric says, shooting Cullen a shit-eating grin, “what did you think of Meredith’s second in command?”

His fan claps her hands together. “The handsome templar?”

Varric’s grin grows even wider. “With the luxurious golden curls?” Cullen looks as though he's in physical pain.

“He was my favourite,” comes a voice, and Varric turns to see Linnea winking at him. Cullen shoots her a look of betrayal and she wiggles her fingers playfully in greeting. “Commander.”

The noble hardly seems to register that the Inquisitor herself has joined them, such is her enthusiastic reply. “I suspected briefly that he was having a torrid affair with the Knight-Commander, but -”

“ _What_?”

“ - that was before I thought perhaps he was secretly involved with the Champion herself -”

Cullen lifts his gaze to the ceiling with a horrified groan.

“ - but after what happened in the subplot with Bethany -”

“These are real people, you know,” he says loudly, but the Orlesians ignore him, Linnea all but stuffing her fist in her mouth to keep herself from laughing.

“I was thinking of writing a sequel. Following the handsome templar in his adventures after Kirkwall -”

“ _No_.”

“ - where he leaves the Order, strikes out on his own and finds love, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, a romance! I do wish you would write more of those, Mister Tethras, they are my favourite.”

“Well, you never know,” Varric says, and winks deliberately at Cullen.

“And where do you see this templar finding love, exactly?” Linnea asks innocently. “If not in, er, the arms of the Champion?”

Varric makes a point of looking at Cullen shrewdly. “I'm still waiting on inspiration for that chapter. Any pointers for me, Curly?”

“ _No_.”

“Still a work in progress, then.”

“Oh, Monsieur Tethras, you must write this book! We insist!”

“Indeed you must! We must read about this handsome templar and his skills as a lover -”

Linnea loses control of her barely held together composure at that, doubling over with wheezing laughter as Cullens seems to be trying his utmost to pretend he’s somewhere else.

The Orlesian seems to misinterpret Linnea’s outburst. “You disagree?”

The Inquisitor grins widely, a wonderfully mischievous edge to it that Varric wants to pick apart and examine closer, but the edge is gone before he can get a real read on it. “Not at all, madame.”

The nobles thank Varric one last time before retreating with their signatures, Cullen dragging a hand over his face with a groan.

“Curly, you’re famous.” Varric slaps him on the back. “I bet you wish I’d used your real name, now.”

“That is absolutely not what I wish. At all.”

“I’m so sorry, Cullen,” Linnea says, sounding both truly apologetic and yet cheerfully unremorseful. “But that was the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Varric gestures for one of the attendants. “More wine, perhaps? If it helps any, I don’t think I’ll be writing that sequel. Not enough material yet.” He raises his glass and gives Cullen another wink. “I propose a toast: to finding love.”

Linnea ducks her head as if embarrassed and laughs softly, raising her glass nonetheless. Interesting.

“And to never telling you about it,” Cullen mutters, and Varric has to chuckle, letting their glasses clink together.

But just _maybe_ , he thinks, maybe there _is_ a chapter or two somewhere in the way they diligently avoid each other’s gaze, even if it’s not one he’s ever going to write.

 

-

 

There are some memories Cullen doesn't fear losing, and there are some that he'd almost prefer that he _did_ , and then there are some that the thought of misplacing makes his chest ache.

Mornings with Linnea, these small pockets of breathy laughter and warmth, are like moments suspended in time, each detail leaving a perfect imprint in his memory that's only _his_ , and nothing else. His unwilling and brief walks in the Fade each night never even touch upon these moments; they lie unspoiled and bright, never twisted or taunting. Though he fears losing them, they only seem to shine more fiercely.

She's still half asleep, curled away from him, though he knows she has places to be and the sun is creeping ever higher. He presses his lips to the back of her neck and she half-shifts into the kiss, the only indication she's not completely unconscious.

“You'll be late,” he murmurs, and nips at her shoulder.

“Mmm… no, I won't.”

He just grins into her neck and wraps his arms around her as she shuffles backwards until they're slotted together, legs tangled and his face in her hair.

“ _Very_ late.”

She grumbles quietly and he trails a line of kisses across her shoulder in a leisurely way entirely at odds to his weak attempts at persuading her to leave.

“They probably don't need me,” she says, “I mean, I'm only the Inquisitor -”

“Of course.”

“ - I'm barely involved, really -”

“I see.” He runs a finger down her arm and she shivers. “Well, if you're sure -”

Which is, naturally, when someone starts rapping impatiently on his door. What his quarters can boast in terms of seclusion and discretion, they lack in any sort of enforceable privacy. Linnea makes a disgruntled noise low in her throat. _Pretend we're not here_ , she mouths as she turns to face him, and for a moment he's sorely tempted. Duty wins out, however.

“What?” Cullen calls, a little shortly. “Who is it?”

“Cullen?” It's Cassandra, and Linnea’s eyes widen. She knocks again with renewed irritation. “I'm coming in -”

“Wait -”

It's too late, Cassandra swings the door open with vigour and he hears the sound of something slamming down onto his desk. “We must discuss the matter of this red lyrium supply line.”

“Er, right now?” Linnea is shooting him a horrified look, mouthing frantically _I'm late_ as he sends her a helpless look.

“Yes, _now._ ” Cassandra pauses, apparently taking a moment to consider if there’s any valid objection to this she can accept. She adds stiffly, “Unless you are unwell.”

Linnea nods pointedly, but in the end, he can't bring himself to lie. “I'll be right down.”

He throws on some clothes and Linnea smoothes his hair down, fighting a laugh desperately as she does, and he climbs down the ladder to his office with a theatrical yawn. He's not sure he's selling it, but luckily, Cassandra barely glances at him.

She stabs a finger at the map on his desk. This detail is clearly frustrating her, as Leliana predicted. “This route makes no sense, I can only assume one of our sources was misinformed -”

“Shall we go somewhere else?”

She shoots him an unimpressed look. “Here is fine. Now, please consider this -”

Cassandra speaks rapidly and without pause, not allowing him a chance to interject further. He feels the absurd urge to laugh, thinking of Linnea upstairs wrapped in his sheets and getting more and more frantic.

“Well?” Cassandra demands. “Don't you see?”

Honestly, he’s barely heard a word. “You may have a point.” There are some strange shuffling noises coming from above them so he clears his throat noisily, earning an odd look from Cassandra. “Worth investigating,” he adds, louder than necessary.

“You're sure you're quite well?”

He's no good at this. Dissembling was never his forte. He nods mutely and points back at the map. “So, er, what you're saying is -”

The next sound has them both turning back to face the ladder, where Linnea is very calmly climbing down. She's wearing an odd mixture of her clothes and his, having apparently failed to locate her own tunic, with her hair pulled back into a bedraggled bun. She's almost presentable, but not _quite_ , but she holds herself with a very convincing businesslike air as she strides towards them.

“Cassandra, good morning,” she says, “how’s the lyrium route tracking going?”

Cassandra appears startled into answering. “Very well, considering.”

“Excellent, glad to hear it.” She gives Cullen a nod. “Commander.”

He fights a grin. “Inquisitor.”

“Now if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid have an appointment.”

Cassandra just stares at her.

And then, having evidently decided this was a battle long lost, Linnea leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth. He can feel the curve of her smile as she does so. “See you later,” she whispers, and then walks out his office with a dignity and poise that defies questioning, despite her bizarre appearance and unconventional entrance.

Cassandra watches her with her mouth slightly agape before turning back to Cullen and looking at him, really _looking_ at him, this time. She takes in his own somewhat disheveled look, his bed hair and hastily thrown on clothes, and she snorts. He squares his jaw, feeling the faint blush creeping across his cheeks and willing it back under control.

“So, you think the river is the key?” he asks determinedly, and gestures back at the map.

Cassandra narrows her eyes at him. He waits for it, but it never comes. Instead she shakes her head and makes another little huff of amusement. “The river,” she concedes, and it's business as usual. Her taciturn approval is hard to read, but he believes it's there nonetheless. Strangely enough, it’s comforting.

Later, when Linnea is setting out for Val Royeaux with a small entourage, she stretches up on her toes to press a gentle kiss to his mouth. It's so beautifully simply to return it, to tilt her chin up with two fingers and ignore the raised eyebrows completely, to find their own bubble of privacy even amidst the hubbub.

A battle long lost maybe, but a victory in its own right.

**Author's Note:**

> My early working title was "consummate professionals learning to consummate professionally" but I, er, scrapped that one early on. Also! I'm trying to do the tumblr thing, you can find me [here](http://skogrr.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
